Pitch Black
by komaeda
Summary: He looks good, she thinks, for someone who has supposedly fallen off a building and most likely sustained serious head trauma and several broken bones. A murder mystery with no murder. AU.
1. Silver Lights

**WE KEEP IT LIGHT UNTIL WE GO DARK. THEN WE GO PITCH BLACK.**

* * *

 _That's bullshit_ , she thinks, staring at the boy in the black and white photo on the side of the milk carton. She can't even eat her goddamn cereal without being confronted by the news. Sickened, Lily lowers the carton so his face is against the table – the least she can do is have breakfast without feeling all weird inside, like black and blue bruises forming on the front of her knees.

It's just all so _wrong_ ; he's been in the headlines for over a week and it's showing no signs of stopping, they had hardly started an investigation before **CASE CLOSED**! victim is proven dead. Like, wow? Really? Guess _that's_ why he's got his supposed brains all over the sidewalk, but let's just ignore the lack of confirmed injuries or forensics, not to mention evidence – some people might take the bait, but Lily Evans is not 'some people'.

Maybe having love spat at you all your life makes one a little cynical, but Lily takes it in stride when her life revolves around the unknown. Figuring out mysteries, talking to the dead – she has to be at least a little cynical, or how else would she get anywhere if she mindlessly accepted everything she read? But Lily's always been different in the family (besides being the obvious ginger) because she's always had an open mind.

She thinks she inherited it from her father, and although the memories are fading, she remembers him to be extremely kind. He was there to mend her cuts and scrapes, to read her favourite stories however many times she wished, no matter how boring they got; he always considered her point of view, whereas her mother always chose her sister first. God knows how much she loves her mother and her sister, no matter how frail, how judgemental, but they just never understand.

Maybe the typing pool just makes life a little boring for people.

They don't understand why she wants to live the detective life. 'It's messy!' Her mother would say. 'It's hard to hold down a job!'

'You'll never get a man that way!' She can hear Petunia's voice perfectly (perhaps because she's said it so many times before).

A sigh escapes her lips, eyes flickering to the milk carton once again. She's vaguely aware of her teeth digging into her lower lip, but that's not what matters – there's some kind of injustice here. It doesn't add up.

She stands, walking over to the counter where she snatches the morning paper beneath a return train ticket to London, and lo and behold, there he is. Grayscale James Potter stares back at her through the front cover, unaware of the fact that he's dead and won't be seeing the light of day any time soon. Underneath his picture is a load of lies, such as 'police did a thorough investigation', 'suffered from the recent loss of his parents', and 'appears to have jumped off the roof of local bar'. Bullshit.

If anything is going to be worth her first investigation, it's this.

* * *

"What did you do with him?"

"With _who_?"

"You know who! Don't play dumb with me when _I'm_ the one with the gun!"

Sirius Black is over his head here; when he joined the big leagues of the Potters, he didn't sign up for gruelling interrogations. He certainly doesn't enjoy it. Should he? His brother seems to like it, his cousin especially. Sure, there's the thrill of the chase, the fight, whatever, but losing his best friend is where he hits the ceiling.

"I mean it, I don't know what you're talking about!"

Sirius throws his head back with a laugh, a noise that's nothing short of a bitter, cruel hiss. "Don't, for one second, think I'm going to believe this _bullshit_!" He holds up the paper, shoving James Potter's face into the bound man's gaze. "You can't tell me that James Potter killed himself. It might fool some, but it won't fool me."

Whatever colour is left in the man's face is suddenly drained. "Is that what th-this is about? James Potter? He's dead – look, I can give you money. That's what you want, right?"

"Wrong," Sirius feels like clawing his own hair out, "that's not what I want. What I want is answers."

"I don't know anything, I-I swear it."

"On what?"

"My mother's grave."

"Your mother isn't dead." Sirius can feel his patience wearing very, very thin, like a rope so close to snapping. He holds the gun to the man's temple, the cold metal digging into the skin. It's a last resort, and a bloody one at that. But it's a small price to pay, he tells himself, for another man's life; a man who will be a thousand times more than this pathetic _bug_ in front of him. "Who are you working for? Pretty politicians like you don't fund themselves."

There's a pause. And then – "Tom Riddle." Finally, a name. "I don't see wh-what he has to do with this, though." Sirius is reckless, he always has been, and without someone to keep him grounded, he might just do something ––––

"honestly I know–"

 _Bang!_

–––– Stupid.

* * *

It feels like the way it began, life, he meant. Circles had always been a nice shape to him, very visually pleasing, and that's how he justified buying round rimmed glasses; something about poetic nonsense involving circles and beef. He can't remember. He knows that circles make him feel some sort of control, he likes patterns and routines, cycles and continuity. Looking from the outside, one wouldn't expect James Potter to enjoy routine of all things, but he's a very complicated man. Sure, it's not the usual definition of routine, but he's clenched fist, a strong jaw, attention on his teeth to hold back the rot inside his brain. There are libraries no one else can read inside him, like everyone else, but he's not sure he wants to be a closed book anymore.

But there's no time left for that now – it's just one of life's regrets. Because he's dead, and he can't go back.

Wait – _dead_?

* * *

Two figures catch her eye on the train.

One is the girl who's been trying to flirt with her from the other side of the carriage for the last twenty minutes.

The other is the dead guy whose face is everywhere.

He looks good, she thinks, for someone who has supposedly fallen off a building and most likely sustained serious head trauma and several broken bones. But dead or not, she thinks she's just found her case subject. And luckily for her, he's sitting right across from Lily, and she's got two hours to decide whether or not to interrogate Mr James Potter.

* * *

She decides that an hour and fifty-five minutes of watching him read a book is not enough to warrant an interrogation. The only conclusion she can draw from this is that it must be a damn good book for his eyes not to stray from the page – not once – or to even put it down to do anything else at all.

Her eyes feel heavy from boredom, like she's about to fall asleep, but she knows that a good detective doesn't fall asleep on the job. That's like, the number one rule. She tries not to focus on the way his jeans are a little too short, or the curve of his lips, frowning in concentration; it's distracting, and simply won't do.

There's a glimmer of hope when he stands, the train stops, and he exists swiftly. She's hot on his trail. Her lungs burn with the desire to figure this out, to talk to him, it's like having something so close yet so far away – he's only a suspect but she's just _so sure_.

 _So sure_ is what she tells herself when it happens all too fast. One minute, she's rounding the corner of the alleyway he's just entered, the next, her neck is caught between his arm and there's something cold against his temple.

"Who are you?" A voice hisses, the barrel of the gun digging deeper with urgency, "what do you want?"

She swallows – she's not stupid enough to be brave. In fact, she's absolutely terrified. Her body feels like a cold fire, a fever, and maybe she'll wake up with Petunia there beside her to tell her she was just having a nightmare. But he moves the gun again and it's suddenly so real. Lily tries to speak, but all that comes out is a pathetic squeak.

"Answer me!"

"Lily!" She flinches, "it's not what it looks like, I promise!" Well, it kind of is.

James scoffs, and she swears that he's visibly sneering even if she can't see him. "You call watching me for three hours 'not what it looks like'? Turn out your pockets. Slowly." She does as he asks, fingers turning the material inside out to dump a measly $200 & her wallet onto the ground. "Pick it up."

She uses her legs to lower himself, his grip keeping her upright, as her hands search the ground for the objects, blind like there's a boulder on her shoulders. She feels so humiliated – she's failed her father's hopes for her by getting caught (her first case of all things!), she's being held at gunpoint, and most of all, she's pissed at himself for ignoring the fact that James Potter is a walking warning sign wrapped up in a dangerous, but cute, body. This is all the investigation is and will be: the confirmation of just how dangerous he is, dead or alive.

The pressure around her neck is gone as soon as he snatches the wallet from her, flipping it open. "An Evans, huh?" The gun is still at her temple. "That makes sense; you can't even be inconspicuous about anything."

He rifles through it a bit more before tipping the contents onto the ground. But she can't be too wrapped up in it when she catches the flash of his knuckles gleaming red with the blood of someone else, the heart of a traitor in his hands.

Obviously he's taking pity on him, that or he's got unfinished business, because he leaves her in the middle of the alleyway with cuts on her flesh and bruises on her ego.

* * *

She figures she can't just turn back so soon. She's paid for her train ticket, why waste the trip? That's what she's gonna tell herself, anyway, instead of ignoring the real fact that she just wants to avoid home for as long as he can. Petunia doesn't need to know that she just got his ass whooped by the dead guy in the papers.

Her eyes are heavy, loaded with emotion, and what she hopes aren't tears. She doesn't know what she's going to do when she goes home. She doesn't know how she's going to explain to her sister what happened – that she failed – or how she's going to deal with the look on Petunia's face. The 'I told you so's that will tumble from her mouth. The condescending pat on the shoulder. Lily doesn't know how she's going to handle it.

But if there's one thing she does know, it's that she's not drunk enough.

"Another Firewhiskey," she calls out bitterly to the bartender, her face tilting downwards ––– but falling has a certain stopping point.

"Nuh uh." A familiar voice calls out besides her, and she freezes. "She'll just enjoy looking at it from behind the counter." When she turns, it's like it's in slow motion. He's dressed up far too nicely to be the same person who'd pulled a gun on her not even 24 hours earlier, lips curved in a lopsided grin, messy hair hardly tamed.

She has no time to express her confusion before he leans in, initiating the first of many hushed conversations to come between the two of them. "Listen up, Evans. I need your help."

"Uh, sure. What do you need?" My internal organs? here – take 'em!

There's an air of confidence about him, and she's not sure she likes it. "I'll tell you everything I know, so long as you hold that tongue of yours, okay?"

She nods weakly.

* * *

okay… chapter one is pretty short and a lil confusing but whatever! chapter 2 will be longer with a lot of gaps filled, and i really wanted it to both end there and get this out, but i hope this is good enough to draw in people's attention!

originally lily was in james' position and james was in lily's, but after like few weeks of working on this story i figured it would make a lot more sense/be far better if their roles were switched. and here we are!

remember to rate the update, comment the update, and subscribe to see more updates like this one


	2. Rose-tinted Glasses

He woke up in a run down hotel, he explains, the lights blinding and the walls a dark brown, and he swears he saw a rat scurry across the worn out carpet. He had absolutely no recollection of why he was even in there in the first place; his head hurt massively, making it so that he was barely able to hear his own thoughts. Lily interrupts to ask why he feels the need to go into this much detail.

"Because you'll have to wait three years for the published book version of this," he says, "and this is my story."

She allows him to continue.

It took him a while to finally get his thoughts into place, and he has no idea how much time passed due to falling in and out of sleep. He could remember his own name, where he was born, his birthday, his zodiac, but he had absolutely no idea why he was in a dingy motel of all places. When he was finally able to stand, he flipped through the drawers for any sort of clue or indication of – well, anything.

All he could find was a measly 200 in pounds.

"I think at this point in the story, I might need to point out that I am not, in fact, the son of a rich CEO."

"I know." "It might come as a shock – wait, what?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, "I mean, why do you think I started investigating you in the first place?"

"Because I'm good looking?"

Lily frowns. "Could you please continue your story?"

"Oh right, yeah. Where was I?" He pauses for a moment to collect his thoughts once more. "Well, once I was done figuring out what my zodiac was – I'm an aries, by the way – I decided to look outside."

He then describes opening the door to reveal a carpark of a clearly dingy motel, the half flickering Leaky Cauldron sign on a skew, the beginning of dawn breaking upon the sky. Looking down revealed a newspaper with that day's date on top of a bristly door mat, which he picked up warily before making his way back inside.

His face was on the front cover.

"Always a good boost to my ego." He jokes, and Lily attempts a half-hearted smile.

His eyes read the paper several times over to the point where his eyes were practically glued to the page, unmoving, fixated on the words CASE CLOSED. It couldn't be closed, because he was alive and breathing with every limb attached to the right place as far as he was aware. His fingers didn't shake. He ought to when reading his own obituary, if it can even be called that. He felt a little numb, but he didn't mention that part.

"Alright, well, that doesn't explain much." Lily says at this point, her fingers playing on the rim of the mug that had been brought over to her by the bartender. James had been too busy telling his story to really notice. "I mean, all we can get from that is the motel – the Leaky Cauldron, did you say?"

"Wouldn't forget a place like that." He smiles a little. "But I'm not done with the story."

"Oh, sorry." Lily smiles sheepishly, hiding her lips by bringing the mug up to her mouth. "Continue."

"Things started to come back to me." It's a little convenient, she thinks, but she'll take it. "A week before all this, my parents died. They were old, to give them some credit; my father died peacefully in his sleep, while someone – I don't know who, yet – took advantage of my mother's momentary weakness with grief and offed her." The day's in fragments, and thinking back on it's a little like James putting together pieces of a puzzle. Except majority of the pieces have been shoved under the rug.

Lily hesitates, but she is truly sincere when she speaks. "I'm really… sorry for your loss."

"They were old. We all knew it would be coming someday, I just thought that maybe they'd make it through a little longer, you know?" He's very open about himself, though she can't tell if it's just a personality trait of his or if it's because he has to be open in order for them both to get answers. Either way, his words hit home.

"Yeah, I know." She looks down at her mug, fiddling with the curve of the handle in order to distract herself or avoid his gaze. She's not sure which yet. "If it's not too sensitive a topic – what do you mean, 'offed her'?"

"Evans, I'm a mob baby."

Her lips form an 'o' shape. "I thought it would be something like that, but…" He leans forward in his seat a bit, raising a brow. "But what?"

Lily shrugs. "You're exceptionally… casual."

"Damn. I thought you were gonna say handsome."

She gives him a sarcastic smile. "Oh yes, that too." Draining the last of the contents in her mug, she looks over at him once more, and realises that despite the fact that he had pulled a gun on her yesterday and admitted to being apart of the mob, he's approachable, with a good sense of humour. She thinks he's still a bit of a jerk, though.

Noticing him looking at her, he cocks his head ever-so-slightly. "Damn, Evans, I know I'm attractive, but I have standards. At least buy me dinner first."

Lily rolls her eyes. "I'm thinking about your story," it's a little scary how easy the lie slips off her tongue, and she's grateful for the fact that he can't notice her blush in this lighting, "and I think you should skip all these little details for now."

"I thought you detectives needed to know everything."

"Well, there's a lot I don't know about you, but so far the only leads you've given me is this motel and your mother's death. Working with them is doable, but not easy. I think we need to start with the big things first, then focus on the little details. I assume you'll be working with me?"

"I've always wanted to be a detective."

She frowns, "this isn't a joke."

"I'm not joking!" He falters under her glare. "Alright, I was five at the time, but I'm just tryin' to lighten the mood. Look, you want to know the big details? Here's two for you." He holds up two fingers. "I'm now the boss of the Potter mafia," one finger down, "and Peter Pettigrew is the one who tried to kill me."

* * *

Remus Lupin's father is a high ranking police officer. A sergeant, to be precise. Why is this relevant? Because Remus Lupin would not have access to police records without him. To be perfectly honest, he could probably find a way to get into police records without his father's key, but the fact that citizens looking at those files is highly illegal is what gets him a little iffed about it. It wouldn't stop him, but he'd certainly weigh it on his conscience.

Remus has just gotten through the door when the phone rings, abandoning his trail of thought on the recent serial killer, and he drops the groceries in his hands near the door to pick it up in time. Remus's racing heart placates at the soft voice down the line of the phone.

"Remus?"

"Lily? Yeah, it's me."

"I feel really bad for asking this, but could you do me a favour?"

Remus nods to offer some reassurance, before he realises Lily can't see him because they're on the phone. "Of course. What is it?"

"Would you mind looking up a few names for me on your dad's records? It's for a case," he can hear her beaming with pride, "a very important one, too."

"Sure, give me a sec." He searches for a pad and pen to jot down notes. "Okay, go."

"Um," there's another voice down the end of the line, saying something to her. "Alright – I'm not _thick_ , I've got it! Oh, sorry Remus, that wasn't for you. The first name I need you to look into is 'James Potter'." There's a faint crackle of protest from whoever else is with her, but she seems to ignore it, so he'll let it pass for now. "The next is 'Fleamont Potter', and 'Euphema Potter'."

"Is that all?" He breathes.

"One last one. 'Peter Pettigrew'." He scrawls the last name. "Thank you so much Remus, it means a lot to me, really."

"It's not a big deal, Lil. I should have them all by tomorrow night; should I call on you on this line?"

"That'd be great," he can hear her smile in her voice, "again, thank you. I've got to go, but we should catch up again sometime."

"I'd like that. Talk you soon, Lil."

"See you – _would you stop that!_ – not for you again, Remus. I'll talk to you soon!"

The line goes dead and Remus finds himself shaking his head, a small smile on his lips. He glances down at the piece of paper in his hands, the four names, before he decides to pack the groceries away before anything else. He doesn't want that milk to spoil.

* * *

"Can you not eat the things from the minibar, Potter? I have to pay for that, you know, and not all of us are sons of rich mafia bosses."

"Sorry." He doesn't look very apologetic at all, though that might be because he's currently licking minibar chocolate off his fingers, sprawled across her bed.

"You're like a _child._ "

"What can I say?" He says solemnly. "I had a rough childhood."

She pauses. "Did you really?"

"Nah, I'm just fucking with you. Though I had to put up with a mangy dog of a best friend, which I reckon might be just as bad."

Lily chooses not to pursue it, copying down the names James had previously listed for her to give to Remus in a small notebook. Her gaze remains on the open pages of the notebook, though she turns her attention to him. "Tell me again about what Peter Pettigrew did to you?"

"You know, I'm starting to rethink this whole 'joining the business' with you. It's exceptionally boring."

"It's not all bank heists and chases. It's tedious most of the time."

"That's because you haven't found a case interesting enough." James lifts himself up to rest his weight on his open palm, supported by the bend of his elbow. "Don't worry, working with a mob baby is a guarantee for action. Though I think I'd like it sooner rather than later."

His words resonate with her, but only for a moment. Not find a case interesting enough –– he's her first case! True, while the thrill of the chase, whether literal or metaphorical, is enough to excite her, it's not why she does it, nor is it reason to go out and chase it. Justice is why Lily Evans is a detective. She wants to expose the truth while avenging those who were wronged; the wondrous satisfaction of finding the culprit. She also doesn't expect any of her first cases to be anything beyond mild.

Well, it looks like she may have been wrong about that last part.

"Peter Pettigrew, please."

"Right, right." James sits up, taking a moment to massage his temple. Lily tears her gaze away from her notebook, and in that moment, he looks beyond his age; she forgets that he's simply some foolish boy with the world on his shoulders. "I was minding on my own business at home, having a great time watching the football – we were winning, for once, by the way – when the doorbell rings. Well, I've got this weird, advanced security, so I figure it's fine. And it was! Peter's been a mate for a long time. I thought he might've just come over to watch the game. So I let him in, offer him a seat."

"And that's when he drugs you."

"He pulled out a piece of cloth, 'thought it might've been a hanky – he's _that_ kind of guy. Then he says 'I'm really sorry about this, Prongs'. Next thing I know I'm in a dingy hotel room." He sounds offended, like the guy's just said something ridiculous about his mother, rather than drugged his supposed good friend.

"Do you think he intended to kill you? And what's Prongs?"

"Prongs is just some stupid nickname," he sighs, "and I don't know. I just – I never expected this from him, ever. Hell, I don't even think he even watches films with explicit violence in them!"

Lily frowns, stumped. "What if – what if he wasn't trying to murder you?"

"Then why the fuck would he pull chloroform on me?"

"Well, you said you woke up in a motel right – the Leaky Cauldron? With 200 pounds in there?"

"Good to see you've been paying attention."

Lily rolls her eyes, exasperation evident in her tone. "Don't you see? You're completely fine, untouched, put in a motel no one would have as their sixth choice with a fair pay to get you through a week." Realisation dawns on James's face. "He wanted you to _disappear_."

"The real question is why..."

Grabbing her notebook and stuffing it into her purse, she turns to him, her face determined. "Let's find out."

* * *

Sirius hates the man he sees in front of him.

Not only has he captured unwanted attention again, but the fact that he has everyone fooled makes Sirius's jaw harden. If he had known a quick breather in the bathroom would entail a meeting with him, he would've spent the rest of the night suffocating without complaint.

What is so great about him, anyway?

Hell if he knows. Nothing, really. All Sirius knows is that he hates the way his black locks sometimes fall into his eyes, the way everyone seems to be in complete and utter awe of him. There's nothing special about him. There's nothing _charming_ about him. He can't even show them the definition of the word.

Unbeknownst to everyone, the man he sees in front of him is fooling everyone. Sirius wants to wash his mouth out with bleach, his teeth rotting with every harsh word he wants to say to him. Sirius knows him like the back of his hand, and what he knows disgusts him.

He's a worthless man with the face of a god. What is it about him that captures everyone's attention? is it his dark eyes? The sense of mystery within him?

Whatever, he scoffs, like he cares.

With one last lingering glare, Sirius turns away from the mirror.

The party has been in full swing since it's started, like he's expected anything less, and Sirius takes a moment to prepare himself for the flashes of blinding jewellery, the fake smiles, the loud chatter. No matter how many parties he attends, it's something he'll never get used to.

It's impressive, he admits, albeit begrudgingly; the ceiling high enough to make it look like it goes on forever and ever if it weren't for the scattered chandeliers, hanging with crystals and purpose. How many people have the Riddles stepped on to obtain enough wealth to own mirrors on every corner? The silk curtains – whose back did they have to break for that?

He's spent enough time around hardened criminals to know that places like this are full of triple agents, bloodshed in the backrooms, motivations gone wild. But right now, there's only one objective: information.

"Took you long enough, Black. Was the mirror being over complimentary again?"

He turns to meet the gaze of Marlene Mckinnon, blonde hair pulled up and pinned into a beautiful twist with tendrils of soft locks framing her face. It's like a crown of platinum blonde; she's striking, which is precisely why Sirius has asked her to accompany him tonight.

"No retort?" A grin pulls at Marlene's lips. "My, how unlike you! Cat got your tongue?"

"If I had known you'd been waiting out here for me, Mckinnon, I'd have taken a lot longer." He clips, messing up his hair via running a hand through it.

"One word, Black, and I'm out of here before you can even grumble a slur."

"Yeah, yeah. Just tell me what you've got."

Marlene shrugs, "nothing, really. Everyone here's so tightlipped."

"Of course they are." Sirius mumbles, briefly catching the eye of a pretty girl across the room. Her dress is slim, hugging her figure in all the right ways, and Sirius can only think about how brunettes have always been more of his thing.

"Did you drag me here to flirt with other girls, or to act as my escort?"

He turns his gaze towards Marlene. "Both, honestly."

Marlene rolls her eyes, grabbing his hand and forcing it around her waist. "Ugh, _boys_."

"Glad you swore off them, eh?"

Her eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. "We both know it wasn't a simple swear off. Now, if you don't start acting like a proper gentleman, I'll – Regulus! Hi!" It's scary how quickly Marlene's expression goes from glowering and terrifying to bright and cheery. To Sirius, her smile is almost sickly sweet. To Regulus, well, he's too much of an idiot to think much of it.

"Marlene," Regulus nods his head in her direction as a sign of acknowledgement, "Sirius." None of the present parties fail to notice the way he forces the word out through his teeth.

"Hello, baby brother." Sirius probably gets off on pissing his brother off – Hell, he probably gets off on pissing his whole family off. "Fancy seein' you at a Riddle party. Though, I hear invitations are to _die_ for."

Regulus's jaw hardens, his gaze narrowing. "Popular conspiracy."

A breath of laughter escapes him, though it's far from humourous. "We'll see about that." There's a moment where they just stare at each other intensely, like the whole room is reduced to white noise and there's only those two that matter, and Marlene doesn't quite know what to do. So she does the thing she's good at.

"Well, if you two are done eyefucking now, we have places to be." She tugs at Sirius's arm. "Come on."

The gaze lingers, before Regulus clears his throat and Sirius tears his gaze away, effectively breaking whatever hatred spell they'd been under. "Yeah." He allows Marlene to drag him away from Regulus.

"God, I could've cut that tension with a butterknife."

With the expanse of the room laid out before him, he drinks in the sight of people milling around, chatting, expensive champagne flutes in their hands. He knew this wasn't going to be easy, but running into his brother has just made things a lot more complicated. "There's plenty more of that to come."

* * *

forgot to mention that this is an au completely without magic… oops

anyway! hopefully this is 1. making sense (if not please let me know so i can touch things up) 2. not making you all want to kill me due to the fact that remus isn't part of the marauders (yet)

should hopefully update before christmas. anyway. remember to rate the update, comment the update, and subscribe to see more updates like this one


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